


tastes like you, only sweeter

by aniloquent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Baking, Bitchy Louis, M/M, Tumblr Prompts, Uni AU, why do I always make Harry a blushing baker honestly I'm tired of myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aniloquent/pseuds/aniloquent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oops."</p><p>Louis raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Hi.”</p><p>“You're Louis. Niall talks about you all the time.”</p><p>Louis makes a noise in the back of his throat. “And you're loud as hell, making cookies in the fucking kitchen at arse o’clock in the morning,” the boy winces again, green eyes shining in guilt at the older boy. “This is the first I'm hearing of you.”</p><p>“It's Harry, actually,” he says good naturedly, dumping the dirty flour in the trash and turning to the sink to wash his hands. “But I like that nickname, too.”</p><p>-</p><p>Based off of the tumblr prompt "You’re baking cookies in the communal kitchen at 3am and I’m angry but also really hungry"</p>
            </blockquote>





	tastes like you, only sweeter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Happy Pride! I'm so sorry for going like AWOL for literally four months or something, but my laptop broke and my summer assignments are kicking my ass. Also, all of my original ideas that I was developing deleted, and I was too heartbroken (see here: lazy) to continue them. I'm going to rewrite them, hopefully for the better, because I do develop my own ideas, not just use them from tumblr. 
> 
> Anyways, remember that brunet refers to a boy with brown hair and that I do know how to spell and again, sorry sorry sorry for being like dead and then coming back with something this rushed. Truly. I am. 
> 
> Enjoy!

As far as Louis was concerned, the key to finals was consistency.

Well into his third year of uni, he and Zayn had made an art of studying for winter exams. They’d crafted a constant, unchanging, sterile environment that blocked out any noises, sights, and even smells that would alter the brain’s track. For a time longer than he could remember, Louis has been pouring over his anatomy book with Mac DeMarco crooning through his speakers at a volume that wouldn’t make him strain his ears to decode lyrics, but also wouldn’t rattle his brain and focus as the notes and crescendos progressed.

He keeps his breathing on a 7-count pattern, taking in what seemed to be the same current of the eucalyptus mint candle resting on the candle warmer in the corner of his and Zayn’s small dorm. His eyes and fingers have developed a mind of their own, working together to notify each other of information Louis had the potential to miss on the test two days from now.

Needless to say, Louis is in the fucking _zone_.

Which is why the whiff of something new, something foreign, induces startling rage in his chest.

Louis actually flinches at the sweet, sugary smell that seemed to be at war with his relaxing plant aroma. He glances over at Zayn, who is sprawled out on his own bed, thin limbs flung over the side of the mattress while his finger traces along sentences in a literature book Louis didn’t recognize. From the way Zayn’s brows knit together almost angrily and the barely noticeable movement of his mouth, Louis assumes that the invader hadn’t yet distracted his roommate. He holds in a sigh with great difficulty.

The brunet shakes his head, as if the act could physically shake him back into his intense revision trance. He was prepared for this type of thing. Hell, he had survived the Horan Hunger Battle of 2014, he could totally handle this. He reaches over his body diagram to retrieve the unopened package of ear plugs he had picked up last week. Louis opens the package as quietly as he could, easing each silicone soldier into a nostril. He thanks a higher power for poetry, which is the only thing protecting him from Zayn’s judgemental stare.

Rubber and irritated nostrils were unwelcome changes from the tranquil mint he had been enjoying less than ten minutes prior, but it did the trick. He could no longer suffer the attack of the invading pastry smell anymore. He smiles victoriously to himself as he continued to study the human arm.

Twenty minutes went by before Louis’ life is tested for the second time that night. Again, startled and offended by the interruption, Louis’ hand flies to his chest and a small, admittedly unmanly squeak left his chest. Zayn remained unmoved.

Instead of sugar wafting under the wooden frame separating Louis and Zayn from other stressed out students in the dorm building, an obnoxious whir from some fucking industrial-sounding machine is damn near rattling the hinges.

Louis glares at the door as if it could do anything about the distraction.

Louis’s floored, the seemingly unwarranted rage from earlier bubbling in his stomach again. Everyone in this building knew of the Tomlinson-Malik process and they were especially aware of the Tomlinson-induced wrath that would result if the art was disturbed. Still, here he was, listening to the metaphorical middle finger that was driving a wedge between Louis and his precious revision time.

Unbelieveable.

Louis grows more and more angry as the noise continued, while Zayn keeps his stoic air not even five feet away from him. Honestly.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Louis growls, standing to his feet and stomping out of the door to the communal living space to give some asshole a piece of his mind.

-

Louis calculates his chances of taking his anatomy exam from prison, guilty of murder, as he makes his way through the halls of the dorm building.

He feels himself growing more and more irritated as the whirring got louder, and he veers a sharp right, socked feet meeting the dull, white, linoleum tile of the kitchen angrily. 3:16 a.m. greets him as the first thing he sees when he enters the kitchen, and Louis feels himself on the verge of hysterics. It's well into the middle of the fucking night and some twat is channeling their inner Gordon Ramsay.

Long, lean legs encased in a pair of surprisingly flattering neon shorts are all that Louis sees of the person bent at a waist (with a bright pink apron string tied securely around it - interesting) by the oven. He clears his throat obnoxiously, ready to deliver a verbal assault, but his snarky comment dies on his tongue as the stranger straightens, and rolls broad, naked shoulders that are the slightest bit over Louis head.

Fuck.

The noisy baker turns, a sheepish smile playing on rosy lips as he scratches the nape of his neck, where brown curls seem to get a little straighter. The toned, tan skin and muscle underneath his apron seem to go on for miles. He jerks his arm up in an awkward wave, which somehow knocks the bag of flour sitting innocently on the counter to the floor with a muted oomph. The boy cringes. “Oops,” he quips in a gravelly voice that vibrates in Louis’ ears.

Louis raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Hi.”

“You're Louis,” the boy says, bending down with a grunt to clean up the culinary mess. Louis doesn't look at the slew of tattoos on the sides of his slender hips, he _doesn't_. “Niall talks about you all the time.”

Louis makes a noise in the back of his throat, watching long fingers deftly lift flour onto the floor. “And you're loud as hell, making cookies in the fucking kitchen at arse o’clock in the morning,” the boy winces again, green eyes shining in guilt at the older boy. “This is the first I'm hearing of you.”

“It's Harry, actually,” he says good naturedly, dumping the dirty flour in the trash and turning to the sink to wash his hands. Louis watches the taut muscles in his back flex as he moves his arms. “But I like that nickname, too.”

The small smile has turned into a wolfish grin as Harry turns to face him again, and Louis realizes with horror - and excitement, but he wouldn't admit that to himself until later - that this boy is _flirting_ with him. Louis wants to give in so bad, he wants to get to know the cute Midnight Baker boy so much better, but he has a very important test coming up very soon, and, not too long ago, he was coming down here to give some twat a very good piece of his mind.

He has to stay focused.

Harry was still giving him that smile, though, and okay, Louis was allowed to have a little fun, he was stressed.

“Are you a freshman?” Before Harry can answer, Louis cuts him off. “You must be. Because everyone in this building knows how I get around finals time.”

Harry nods dumbly, fiddling with impossibly large hands and shifting his weight. “Yeah, Niall told me, and I'm so sorry. Honestly. It's just,” Harry desperately glances at the baking supplies still dripping in batter. “I stress bake. Me and my roommate Liam were completely freaked over finals, and he's homesick, and I knew his mom’s recipe so…” Harry trails off, fixing Louis with another emerald stare. “Sorry.”

Louis tunes back in, as if he hasn’t been watching Harry’s lips the entire time, and makes a noise in the back of this throat. “Your boyfriend is so lucky to have such a sweet boyfriend that'll make him cookies whenever he wants,” He comments casually, and shit, Louis doesn't know what to make of Harry’s sputtering reaction.

His green eyes go wide, and he wrings his hands even more. “Oh, no, me and Liam - we aren't - uh, no. Liam has a girlfriend,” he finally gets out quietly, looking down at his feet. “He's straight, so, no. Yeah.”

Louis is still watching him, and Harry starts to squirm even more. He was totally enjoying this. Is this what it felt like to be Zayn? Amazing. “Well, any guy would be lucky to have you.”

Harry still hasn't really answered his question, and there's so many different options other than “not straight” that would prevent Louis from getting into Harry’s highlighter pants. But when Harry nearly preens and shoots Louis a blinding smile, murmuring a shy “thanks” and relaxing his posture, Louis nearly sighs in relief. Those weren't actions of someone who didn't like dick.

“Still,” Louis says, because he has a reputation as a complete bitch to keep up and he'll be completely damned if he lets a blushing, stammering newbie trample that, “it's fucking three in the morning. And you're making a shit ton of noise.”

Harry crosses his arms and raised his eyebrows challengingly, and Louis wants to scream in sexual and literal frustration. “You don't seem to mind so much now that you know I'm bi.”

Louis feels his face heat up, and waves his hand, as if physically dismissing Harry’s observation. “Pish posh. You're still disrupting my precious studying time, freshman.”

Harry doesn't even flinch when Louis uses his class year as a curse word, he beams mischievously down at the shorter boy. “Seems like I still have a lot to learn then. Maybe you could teach me.” Louis doesn't allow himself to think about those words for too long. “What are you studying for?”

Louis is a second too late in their banter, caught in the slight swell of Harry’s offensively pink mouth. How is that even possible? “Uh, anatomy.”

Harry, for what seems like the hundredth time that night, flashes his pearly whites at Louis, as if he was winning the flirting game between them. “So you know a lot about bodies?” He leans down next to Louis’ ear. “You could _definitely_ teach me a thing or two.”

And honestly, what did Louis do in his past life to end up with a gift like this?

“Harry,” Louis starts, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s called the boy by his actual name throughout their whole encounter.

“Louis,” Harry shoots back, and his name sounds like sex coming through those lips.

“How long before your cookies are ready?” He asks, stepping forward to trace the line of Harry’s abs through his apron. The taller boy shudders slightly.

Louis looks up to find green eyes reading the clock across the kitchen. “Uh, about thirty minutes. Twenty-seven if you want to be exact.”

The shorter brunet makes a noncommittal noise, still running his fingers along Harry’s torso. “Interesting.”

“Why?”

Louis leans up to whisper in Harry’s ear, much like he had Louis’ a few minutes ago. “I think we can start your first lesson right now.”

"Sure," Harry says lowly. "But Louis?"

"Hm?"

"You've had ear plugs in your nose for the last fifteen minutes now."

 _Shit_.

-

Zayn wasn’t as focused as Louis thought he was.

Meaning yes, he definitely saw the ear plug thing because, what the _fuck_ , Lou.

Still, he chose not to speak on it. One, he really needed to understand thirty of Emily Dickinson’s lesser known poems for his American Poetry Studies class the following day, and two, it would taste so much sweeter if he brought this up in a larger group of people, just to see Louis squirm.

Zayn is a good friend like that.

So when Louis shoves questionable shit into questionable holes of his body, he turns a blind eye.

When Louis storms out of the room to mega-bitch like the fucking drama queen he is, Zayn barely bats a lash, because the person probably deserved it, anyways.

But when Louis waltzes back into the room with considerably more pep in his step than before, hair and shirt mussed, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, holding a plate stacked with sweets that look and smell foreign to Zayn after hours of cramming, he can’t help but give the short brunet a questioning stare.

Louis beams back at him, chest heaving slightly. He tilts his head to the side in an effort to be cute that does little more than expose a blooming hickey at his shoulder joint. Zayn slowly starts piecing everything together, a slow, unbelieving smile creeping across his face.

“Cookies?”


End file.
